


For Now, I Follow

by Maelstrom_Roots



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maelstrom_Roots/pseuds/Maelstrom_Roots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love it when he says my name like that: slow yet in rhythm, as if he’s stumbled upon something special and can’t quite believe his luck."</p><p>One-shot. Felicity musing on her relationship with Oliver: on why she follows him and when she'll stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Now, I Follow

**Author's Note:**

> Long time reader, first-time writing. (There's a Dr. Horrible reference in there somewhere.) Was feeling inspired to break outside of my experience as a fanfic reader, and try something new. Let me know what you think!

He thinks I don’t see it. The glinty darkness in his eyes. The faraway look he gets when he thinks no one is looking. His gaze sheens over, and I know what he’s thinking about: The Island. I can almost see the gnarly vines reflected in his irises. _These were five years where nothing good happened_ , he told us once, his voice filled with tears and rage in equal measure, the black holes of all-consuming depression and anger struggling to make themselves known. They are always there, fighting to get to the surface, trying to suck all the goodness that is in him and crush it into nothingness. Oliver’s true strength isn’t measured in salmon ladders climbed or arrows loosed; it is measured in the seconds he keeps those dual furies at bay. Not enough people see that. They see agility and muscle and think that is what makes him a hero. They think that’s what makes him strong. I think he confuses these strengths, too.

He told me once that, sometimes, he wishes he were still that self-indulgent kid who boarded  _The Queen’s Gambit_. It is quiet in the Foundry. We are waiting for Diggle to return from a scouting mission. He is sharpening his arrows and doesn’t look me in the eye, ashamed of his vulnerability, ashamed that he would wish five years of hell and loss and suffering away for the chance to be ignorant and carefree again. For the chance to feel light.

 _You choose not to be that person everyday_ , I tell him. His gaze flickers up to mine, blue on blue, and his pupils widen in that forlorn way I love for its innocence-despite-everything. He believes that all of it has been stripped away, but I know better. There is nothing more innocent than the desire to be told that you have done good, that you are loved and you deserve that love. I pull him in with my declaration, willing his soul to loosen itself from its permanent clench. It’s too afraid to breathe, you see, for fear its next breath will be of malice rather than justice, and it never lets me in for long.

Most of the time, my efforts come in the form of a well-timed quip or an amiable jab. This is an arena he is more comfortable in: The Team Zone. (Anything to stay away from the notion of love.) He always seems so surprised by his smiles, and I try not to think about that too much. It doesn't help to dwell on these things when there's so little I can do about them. When there's so little he'll _let me_ do. Instead, I think about the next chuckle I will pull from him. The next exasperated _Felicity._ I love it when he says my name like that: slow yet in rhythm, as if he’s stumbled upon something special and can’t quite believe his luck.

These moments have become harder as of late. These are the moments I try not to live for, the ones now tainted by  _maybe_ s and  _might-have-been_ s. I have my own heart to look after, after all. I have my own soul that longs to breathe free, hidden away too long behind walls built in the cold burn of loneliness and loss: Father gone. Boyfriend (assumed) dead. Strong, brave Sara stolen from us when the city was safe and everything was supposed to be OK because not even bazookas could kill us. 

He leaves, too. He flees to his islands -- figurative and literal, again and again. Because that self-indulgent kid is still in there somewhere. Because self-indulgent kids grow from insecure boys with their own mansion of abandonment issues. Because, even if he's learned how to show compassion to the killers he faces, he still hasn't learned how to show compassion to himself. But _him_ , I go after. Him, I jump out of planes for with only a thin membrane of nylon and the faith that he is something worth keeping to break my fall. Him, I love even when he can't -- when he  _won't_ \-- love me back. (Because _I love yous_  expressed as double negatives don't count. Because I deserve better.)

Sometimes, I long for the day when this isn't the case. When my desire to protect him doesn't trump the desire to protect myself. I long for this day, but never as much as I dread it. Never as much as I hope for the day he chooses to follow me back.


End file.
